Death at Gallows Green (35 page)

“That is all well and good, Sir Charles. But how can you be sure that the man with the wooden leg did not visit the scene before or after the victim's demise?”

Charles glanced at the jury. He had their attention. He did not want to lose it. “You know that leaves fall to the ground every year.” One or two of them nodded wisely. “And you also know that this year's leaves fall on top of last year's leaves.” The man who had claimed to be deaf was leaning forward, intent, also nodding.

The coroner frowned. “And what have leaves to do with footprints?”

“Only this, sir,” Charles said. “The footprints of persons visiting the site after the discovery of the body were intermingled. Where these particular tracks are found together with those of the victim and the man with the wooden leg, they are laid upon them—just as we would expect, having been made at a later point in time. This year's leaves, as it were, on top of last year's leaves.” He picked up a photograph and pointed to the clear impression of several prints, including the curious round one, which had been partially obscured by Miss Ardleigh's and Edward Laken's prints. “The footprints of the victim and the one-legged man, however, where they occur together, are intermingled. They were laid down at the same time—last year's leaves, as it were.”

The deaf man sat back and several jurors nodded with looks of understanding.

Hodson studied the photograph for a long moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb so firmly that Charles wondered why it was not completely flattened. “So,” the coroner said finally, “you believe that the victim and the one-legged man were at the scene together.”

“Yes,” Charles said. He looked at Pell, who was examining his fingernails.

Hodson peered at Charles over his glasses. “Are you able to shed any light on the identity of this man?”

“I believe so.” Charles picked up the cast that he had once thought to be a woman's boot heel. “This cast is a detailed and faithful reproduction of the lower four centimeters of a wooden leg. You will note that it appears to be fashioned with a protective cup of some sort on the tip, probably made of rubber. And if you look closely here”—he took out a pen and pointed at the cast—“you will see that this cup itself has split and separated.”

The coroner leaned forward and took the cast from Charles. “It appears,” he said thoughtfully, “that a part of the rubber tip has been lost.”

“Exactly,” Charles said. “The man who accompanied the victim seems to have worn a wooden leg with a damaged rubber tip.”

Charles looked once more at Pell, who was no longer absorbed in his fingernails. His face had gone grey, his mouth was thinly pinched, and he was staring at Charles with a look of wild-eyed panic. The room was so quiet that Old Willie Hogglestock's cry of “Fresh fish today,” in duet with the gypsy's “Boots fer tuppence,” could be easily heard.

The coroner leaned back in his chair and for a very long time studied the cast in his hand. Finally he laid it down and spoke.

“Chief Constable Pell, I will not require you to give sworn testimony which may be used against you in a later trial. However, as the Crown's coroner and representative of Her Majesty the Queen, I require you to surrender certain evidence that may be matched against the cast taken at the scene. Do you elect of your own free will to testify before this inquest, or do you choose to yield up your leg?”

Dudley Pell, chief constable of the Essex Constabulary, gave a low moan and covered his face with his hands.

B
ea stood beside the carriage that was taking them to the railway station at Calchester, directing Pocket in the placement of her bags and Hunca Munca's and Peter's cages. Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's basket she held in her hand.

“I am so dreadfully sorry to leave you and Bishop's Keep,” she told Kate, “just as I was beginning to feel at home here. I am concerned for the state of Mama's health, but I confess that I can hardly bear the thought of returning to Bolton Gardens.” Her face became mournful. “It feels as if I am returning to prison.”

“I am sorry, too,” Kate said, with genuine feeling. She knew that Bea's presence was required at home, but that did not make her regret the loss any the less, for they had grown very close. Pocket finished stowing the baggage, came round the carriage, and handed the ladies in. “I felt I had found the sister I truly wanted.”

“well, you have done
that
, at least,” Bea said. She settled herself in the seat and put Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle's wicker basket on the floor at her feet. “We must correspond often, Kate, and you shall come to visit when you come up to London. I shall want your advice on getting my little books out into the world. And I feel a deep curiosity about how matters will turn out between you and Sir Charles.”

Kate raised her shoulders and let them fall. “How matters will turn out? My dear Bea, I must confess to being curious as well.” She had thought from the way he looked at her that afternoon at Agnes's that perhaps he had an interest in her. But it had been several days now, and not a word. And all that time, she had felt vaguely restless and discontented, despite the outcome of the inquest and the assurance that Agnes's pension would be paid. “I understand that he has gone off to Chelmsford.”

“He may have gone to Chelmsford,” Bea said with composure, as the carriage rattled off down the lane. “But he has hardly departed for good. In any event, he has merely gone for the arraignment of the chief constable, has he not?”

Kate nodded. “I believe it was scheduled for today. He is to give the same evidence, I understand, that he gave at the inquest.”

The source of her information was Amelia, who heard it from Lawrence. At the thought of Amelia and Lawrence, she smiled a little. She had spoken to Mrs. Pratt about the situation that morning. There was no reason why the two should not be permitted to see one another openly, so that they could stop creeping about. Mrs. Pratt was a dear soul, but rather too severe when it came to the maidservants.

Bea shook her head, obviously still thinking about the inquest. “What a business.” She made a
tch-ing
noise. “Who in the world would have thought it possible that an officer of the law could be so villainous as to engage in theft and murder!”

“Apparently the theft was of long-standing, too,” Kate said. “Sir Charles told me after the inquest that Pell had been involved in grain-stealing for several years, and not only in this area, but to the south and west as well. As far as Chief Constable Pell was concerned, of course, the beauty of it was that he was so remote from the crimes themselves, and yet received quite substantial sums of money for providing both a means of shipping the grain and protection from the law.”

“I find that wonderfully fascinating,” Bea said. “Since he employed bailiffs like Russell Tod to manage the actual thefts, he was involved only in arranging for the shipment and sale of the stolen grain—and that through his wife's shipping business. Such an ingenious entrepreneur! To use his occupation as a police officer for the protection of criminals and to enhance his wife's shipping business—and to reap the profits from both ventures!”

“Indeed,” Kate said ruefully. “And apparently most of those bailiffs never knew his identity. It was Russell Tod's bad luck that he was curious enough to go to Wivenhoe, the headquarters of the shipping firm, and nose out the real name of his employer. That is apparently why he was killed.”

“Brack has confessed that he and Tod killed Sergeant Oliver?”

“Yes, and to kidnapping Betsy—although he is not quite clear as to what he and Tod planned to do with her. They seemed to think that if the law closed in on them, she might become necessary to their escape. In the meantime, they made it appear that she had been drowned in order to curtail the search and possible discovery.”

“I am not sure I understand,” Bea said, “to what extent other policemen may have been involved in the thefts.”

“That is the saddest part,” Kate replied. “When Edward realized that it was Pell whom Betsy had seen arguing with Russell Tod the night of Tod's death, and when Sir Charles determined that Tod had been accompanied to his death by a man with a wooden leg, they immediately laid their evidence before the coroner. He agreed that in view of the extraordinary circumstances, Superintendent Hacking should be notified at once. Hacking instructed Inspector Wainwright to begin an immediate investigation of Pell. The results are not yet complete, but Pell seems to have suborned at least three constables, each of whom profited from the crimes in their districts.”

“I trust that Sergeant Oliver was not one of them,” Bea said.

“No. Pell had sent Tod to approach him. The sergeant misled Tod into believing that he would join them. When Tod realized that the sergeant was gathering evidence to charge them with theft, he and Brock murdered him.”

“And P.C. Bradley? Was he involved?”

“Apparently not,” Kate said, “although Pell seems to have had his eye upon him as a possible recruit. Nor was Edward Laken.” She smiled a little, thinking of Edward. “in fact, it was Edward's reputation for stubborn honesty that persuaded Pell to take him off the investigation. He told the superintendent that he wanted to handle it himself, and Hacking concurred—ignorant, of course, of Pell's real motive.”

“And of course by taking the case himself, Pell thought he was ensuring that the sergeant's killers would not be discovered.”

“Exactly. That is why he assigned P.C. Bradley to the case, knowing him to be a young officer who would take orders without question.”

Bea sat back in her seat and looked out the window. “An amazing series of events,” she said reflectively. “Coming to Bishop's Keep, Kate, we both wished for adventure. Have you had your fill of it yet?”

Kate laughed and patted her hand. “Enough to keep Beryl Bardwell occupied for some time. I fear, however, that she may never get her fill—if she intends to go on writing, that is.”

“If?” Bea raised her eyebrows. “There is a doubt?”

“Not about writing itself,” Kate said, and hesitated. The excitement of authorship, as she had discovered upon the publication of her first story, ran deep in her veins and would not be denied. But the writing of sensational stories, with their fragile, fainting heroines, dastardly villains, and neat moral lessons, was not as easy or appealing as it had once been. Was she running out of enthusiasm or inspiration? Or had her own experience become more complex, so that she could not so readily portray the world in terms of right and wrong?

“I think,” she added, “that I should like to try my hand at a different kind of writing.”

Bea smiled, “Less lurid and more literary?”

“Something like that,” Kate replied. “Having to keep my work secret because I fear that some may be offended by it takes much of the pleasure from writing.” She thought briefly of Sir Charles, imagining with an apprehensive shiver what his response would be if he knew about Beryl Bardwell.

Bea looked directly at her. “Then don't keep it secret,” she said. “Your stories are exciting in their own right, if rather sensational. They are nothing of which you should be ashamed.”

Kate considered. There was merit in Bea's advice. If she were truly an independent woman, or if she truly believed in what she wrote, she would not fear others' reactions. If she did, then perhaps she was not as independent as she thought, or her stories as well worthy as she had believed.

“I myself am certainly aware of the problem,” Bea went on ruefully, “although it is not
I
who am concerned. It is Papa who would be sorely distressed at the thought of my writing for publication. It would utterly dismay him to see the Potter name appear on anything so commercial as a book. In his mind, publishers are at the same low level of society as pawnbrokers and policemen. He would be utterly horrified at the idea of my doing business with any of the three.”

Kate smiled. “Weil, then, what of you, Bea? What are
your
writing plans?”

Bea looked down at her hands in her lap with the self-deprecating smile Kate had come to know so well. “I fear that is too grand a term for my little schemes, Kate. But I have learned from observing the discipline you bring to your craft. I shall set about making a book of my little Peter Rabbit story, and perhaps one about Jemima Puddleduck, and Mr. Tod and Mr. Brock, as well—a fox and a badger, if ever I saw them. You knew, didn't you, that the name Tod means fox, and Brock means
badger
?”

“No, I didn't know,” Kate said, “but it sounds like a wonderful story, about two very disagreeable men. But how shall you get around your father's difficulty with publishers?”

Bea considered. “If I had the books printed up myself, Papa could not complain.”

“Of course!” Kate cried. “As miniatures, just the right size for children, illustrated with your marvelous drawings!” She squeezed Bea's hand. “You see? Your trip to Bishop's Keep has not been wasted.”

“Wasted?” Bea was half-amused. “You have whetted my appetite for more than the writing life, Kate. You have given me a taste of what it is like to live singly, obliged to no one. I am even more determined now to have my own cottage near Sawry, far from London and Bolton Gardens and Papa and Mama. And you and Beryl Bardwell. shall visit me there, and we shall have even more adventures!”